Full of Grace
by Iris Serinium
Summary: A personal narrative, about my grandmother's death. I almost used it in my eighth grade portfolio, but choosed a different story instead. Very sad, and very emotional.


I hated god for what he had done to me. It was unfair and cruel to me as I woke up that morning to realize the sweet old woman called my Great Grandmother was really dead. She had passed away only three days ago in the cozy haven of my grandma, her daughter's, house. And today was her funeral. The night before, I had laid down in my bed, still as a mouse. Just waiting, listening, tensed, and very,very awake. I couldn't sleep a wink. All I could think of was that stupid funeral I had to go to tomorrow and watch those stupid people dump my great-grandma into a huge hole in the ground all because god decided to kill her off. It was like one of those cheesy soap operas. The one where the favorite character always gets killed off, except, most times he or she comes back. That next morning, I knew Great-Granny wasn't coming back. My mom gently nudged the door open that morning. Calling my name softly and letting her words tenderly echo through the room. "Sarah, it's time to get up, hony." I turned my head to look at her. I knew she must have seen how tired I was, because a look of sincere concern crossed her face "Of, if y ou want to sleep a little longer...." Mom began. I shook my head. "No, I'll get up." My voice was hoarse, scratchy. I was surprised by the sound of it. My mom nodded, the weary concern still on her face, then slipped out of my room, gently closing the door. I turned my head again, staring up at the ceiling. It took all the power and strength I had to sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The air was chilly, and cool without the warm nest of blankets confiding me. As I stood up and strode across the floor, the wood was smooth and creaked beneath the weight of my feet. It was almost in a mechanical sequence that I managed to bathe, dress, and fix myself for the funeral. Nearly forty minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror, dark eyes staring at the unfamiliar image reflected before me. In the mirror stood a pale, little girl who looked as thought she had seen a ghost, with bags under her eyes and the fragile, shattering look of untouchable bathing her near porcelain skin. No smile adorned her face, and her clothing was somber, all in black. I didn't recognize this person, it was terrifying. I hated it almost as much as I hated god because that fragile, tiny girl was me! As soon as I realized who that image was of, my brain short-circuited. I knew it was stupid, but I didn't it anyways-----I slammed my fist into the mirror, shattering the image into millions of tiny shards. Glass flew everywhere, straying across the floor and the room, lodging itself into my fist. Fresh blood trickled down the cracked, broken mirror. My blood. My breathing was hard, labored, and pain shot through my hand. But I didn't care. The girl was gone. I was glad that I could no longer see that other side of me. The mirror was broken, like my heart. My bedroom door swung open, hitting the wall and I heard my mother gasp loudly. I could see her and my father's faces in reflecting in the remaining shards of glass, their shocked and dumbfounded expressions. "Sarah!" My mother nearly screamed, reaching for me. My father stepped forward and grabbed me, hoisting me up into his strong, stone arms. My body went limp, useless like a rag doll in his warm grip. No emotion ever crossed my cold face. My dad took me down to the kitchen, sitting me down on the table. My mother, still in shock from my sudden display, grabbed a medical kit and tweezers, plucking the bits and piece of what used to be my mirror from my fist. I watched my mother vaguely, seeing her hesitantly peak up a few time, looking for something. I knew my father was looking, too. And I knew what they were looking for. Tears. But none ever came, none ever pushed the corners of my eyes. My cheeks remained dry. I didn't cry. It was a ridiculous thought to me. I hadn't cried since I was nine years old, because when I turned nine and lost my Great Uncle to cancer, I decided crying weakened me and it wasn't worth it. So I didn't cry. My mom bandaged my hand after thoroughly removing the glass shards and cleaning the wound. She she finished, I started to hop off the table, but she caught me and forced me back down. I looked at her questioningly. Her warm brown eyes were sympathetic and pitying. That set me off. I hated it. The pity in her eyes. I didn't need anyone's pity. "Baby, what's wrong? Is this all about granny? Tell mommy." She said in a soothing, babying voice. I glared at her in return. She was talking to me like I was a stupid, little baby. A newborn. The sound of it disgusted me. I didn't need my mother to get in the way of the pain and the anger I was trying to deal with. It was mine to take care of. I didn't need her parental input, or her help with dealing. It was my problem! "I'm fine. I just need some fresh air." My voice was cold, harsh and my glare was icy. I pushed past her and my father, sweeping out to the door. I wretched it open with a weak tug, and strode outside boisterously, letting the ice cold world encase me. To my relief, my parents did not follow me. But I could hear them talking. "She's so fragile right now, we need to give her some time." "What if she does something like this again? But worse? I'm so worried!" I ignored their words and stepped a little away from the house, their voices fading. I looked out over our backyard, the entire thing covered in white, beautifully glittering snow. Everything look so beautiful, so peaceful, so calm. But it was all so cold. Cold like death. I shook my head, trying to clear it of distressed thoughts. I wrapped my arms around my cold body, trying to peel away some of the sickly chill the plagued it. Suddenly, the back door swung open and my sister, Jessica appeared holding my jacket. "Come on," She yelled, "We're leaving. I nodded and walked back to her, wordlessly accepting the coat and slipping it on. We all loaded into the car, my parents in the front, Jess and me in the back. I could see my parent's eyes flicker to me in the rear view mirror. I ignored their insistent glances. The drive felt as though it lasted forever. As though it took an hour to climb each hill, to turn each corner, to drive down each lane. And I was glad it took that long. It gave me sometime to lay back and rest my head on the back of the seat. All of this was happening so quickly. It's like people wanted to get it all over with, and forget all about great-granny. Like they wanted to forget she ever existed. Sure, she was dead now. But did anyone even care? I had prated to God so many nights to help her get better, but instead, he had taken her away. And everyone had been so calm about it! Me, I was upset and angry and sad and so hurt because it was like no one cared and I could even cry about it! Granny just could be dead, because if she was dead then everyone would be sad and angry like me--------- right? Suddenly, the car came to a screeching stop, pulling me from my thoughts. We had arrived. My dad clicked the key, the engine of the car dying with a gigantic roar. A second later, I was dragging mysel out of the car and towards the vortex of sadness called a funeral home. My family was with me, walking right alongside me. Strangely enough, it made me feel a little better. But I still didn't trust myself. What if my anger got the best of me again, like earlier? We kept getting closer and closer to the building. I could see other people wearing black, arriving and going inside. No, no, no...I didn't want to do this. I felt my stomach lurch and my throat tighten. I stopped directly in front of the door, the man who was passing out pamphlets gave me a funny look. I felt me dad wrap an arm around my shoulders. I looked up at him to see his eyes gazing warmly down at me. He winked and gently coaxed me forward. I took my first step into the funeral, and it was l like entering another world. The temperature immediately dropped. Dread encased me like a tight cage, and there were lots of people. Or for better terms, lots of strangers. Great granny must've known a lot of people, because the number that had gather at the funeral was near uncountable. As I walked inside with my father, a few of them came up to me. "We give you our condolences, Alvi must have been a terrible loss for you." They said. All I could do was nod back. My heart rate increased as we went into the main room of the funeral home, where the coffin was set. As we got closer to Granny's coffin, I realized I was holding my breath. I tried to stop again, but Dad pushed me forward. I just knew this was going to be a huge calamity. If I saw her frozen, cold face, I just knew I would lose it again. I tried to focus on something else. I looked at the flowers some people had sent and wrinkled my nose. Roses. Great Granny had hated roses, she said they were sill symbols of romance, and all romance ever did for her was give her a lousy husband and seven kids. That made me smile a little, but it was hardly noticeable. A better choice of flowers, I thought, would have been lilies. Great Granny had always loved stargazer lilies. They had decorated her wedding in the pictures I had seen, on birthdays big bouquets of them filled her house. And even in the summer time they would be set up in her little two-story colonial, giving an essence of the era it came from. I looked up at my dad, about to say something about the flowers, but I stopped when I saw his face. It was solemn, and dark. Like black granite. At first, I didn't understand, but then I realized that we had reached the destination of dread: Great Granny's coffin. Against my will, my head snapped around to see her. She was lying there in the coffin, dressed in her Sunday best. Her white hair curled like a silver halo around her withered, wrinkled face. And something snapped within me. It wasn't anger, it was more of a release. I began to tremble and my lower lip quivered. She looked so calm, so peaceful, so at rest. The sternness I had always see on my great grandmother's face was....gone. She had a look of grace to her. I was no longer angry. Not at God, not at anyone. I didn't know what this feeling was, but if felt so much better than anger. I noticed something wet on my grandmother's face. Wait....was her corpse crying? I reached down and touched her freezing cheek, wiping the wet substance off of her freezing cheek. That's when I saw another wet splotch, but them time, I saw it fall and hit my hand. I reached up and touched my cheek to find warm trails of tears streaming down my face, clouding my vision, and the distinct taste of salt in my mouth. Then I collapsed, hitting the ground in front of Granny's coffin, sobbing. Dad bent down and wrapped his arms around my shaking body. It felt good to cry. To let it all go. I had hated god for what he had done to me. He had taken away someone I loved, someone close to me and dear to my heart. But I couldn't hate him for what he had done for her. He had given my Great Grandmother a gift that no else could: his grace. I could imagine her as I sat there, crying my heart out, looking down on me from heaven and smiling. Happy and painless. I had hated people for trying to move on. But I couldn't tell them it was wrong. They knew Great granny was in a better place, and that they would see her again. I would see her again. I loved god for what he had done for me.


End file.
